


Syrup Pies

by ang3lba3



Series: A Disease Called Friendship [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Child Neglect, Drug Addiction, Fluff and Angst, Humanstuck, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drug Use, pale relationships are life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you remembered first.</p><p>(You hope with every selfish piece of your bloodpusher that you are the only one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Syrup Pies

**Author's Note:**

> You can get high off cough syrup, because of a chemical in it called DMX. Please excuse the OOCness that probably clings to these poor miswritten babies, this is my first time writing homestuck.

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and this is your 11th birthday.

Daddy says that you’re a big boy now that you’re 11.

(You learn this just means that he leaves you alone more often.)

The fridge is empty, save for a last slice of american cheese, and you stare at it thoughtfully as your stomach rumbles. You don’t take it, instead choosing to save it. It can be your special dinner. American cheese is one of your favorite things.

(You don’t know where Daddy is. He’s been gone for 4 sleeps now, and there was barely any food when he left, and after dinner there will be nothing at all.)

You go to your room after grabbing a chicken pot pie tin you saved from when there were still Banquet chicken pot pies. You climb up the small chair you put in front of the bathroom sink, and open the cupboard. Inside are razors and the pills Daddy never takes, but you ignore them to move the comb blocking the almost full bottle of cough syrup aside and take it down.

You’ve saved this for quite some time now, only taking small doses and biting  your way through bags of cough drops. But now, today, on your birthday, you will be able to have your favorite: syrup pie. You have enough to feel fuzzy and warm, but not enough to see those mOtHeRfUcKiNg MiRaClEs.

You don’t tell anyone about the syrup pies, but Karkat notices your slurred speech and slowed movements, the dopy smile on your face. The other kids just think that you’re mentally disabled, but you test higher than anyone would expect. Almost as high as Sollux, when you haven’t had syrup for a few days.

(The teachers don’t know what to do. It’s clear something isn’t right with you, but Daddy always gets a doctor’s note from somewhere to cover it up. You know Daddy doesn’t care that you have the syrup pies, but he told you you can’t tell anyone else about them, or they would take your pies away.)

(When you’re older, you’ll wonder why he let you have the syrup. You’ll wonder if it’s because of the things you see yourself doing when you’re seeing those mOtHeRfUcKiNg MiRaClEs. Things you do to Daddy, things you do to your friends.)

It’s alright you suppose that you’ll only feel fuzzy, and you pour the thick purple into the pie tin carefully.

(Grape is your favorite. It reminds you of the pretty color your blood used to be, not the candy red that it is now. Cherry makes you feel nauseous, makes you remember Karkat bleeding and scared and trying so hard not to cry.)

You sip it out slowly at first, eventually gulping, little rivulets running down your face, sticky on your skin and shirt. You force yourself to slow down not long after you feel it drip down your neck and pool in the harsh hollow of your collarbone.

You don’t want to waste any.

It’s gone too soon, and you drop the pie tin on the floor, choosing to lie flat on your back on the tiles.

 

That feels nice.

 

You close your eyes, listen to the sound of the neighbors, and you float there for a while until the door opens. There are the tiny heavy footsteps that are so familiar to you. You knew he would come today of course, but you had been starting to wonder if he’d-

(He always brought food, and you think of when you touched fingers through the grates, pressed your cheek hard against the cold metal so you could feel the warmth of his skin when he papped you.)

“What are you doing.” a high pitched scratchy voice says in a tone that is entirely too loud and too aggressive for such a nice day.

(It’s perfect.)

“Just chilling, my brother.” You say, squinting blurry eyes at him. He frowns, pulls you to your feet. You sway and fall forward onto him. He’s smaller than you by a lot, but very strong, a compact wiry little thing. He holds you, although not without some effort.

(Sometimes you think he knows about the pies, or at least suspects.)

“We’re going to the couch you vacant shithead, and we’re going to watch TV.” Karkat declares. He shouts it into your ear, and you pat his hair gently, fingers searching for where his nubby little horns should be.

(Sometimes you forget that you aren’t trolls anymore. You haven’t forgotten today, and know you search in vain, but the habit of it is as much a comfort as his skin on yours.)

You find only skin, and he huffs in annoyance, drags you to the couch as you stumble and cling to him. His body feels warm and good and safe, just like it always has.

(You know what his blood tasted like when he was a troll. You licked it from your claws after swiping at him, fiercely angry with nowhere else to explode.)

Eventually you fall onto the couch, and Karkat stands at the TV and flips through the channels, yelling about how there is no remote. You dig it out of the couch cushions and smile at him.

“Brother,” you say, “I found it.”

He turns, sees it, and snatches it. His sharp movements are at odds with how soft his hands are when they brush yours, with the rounded little nubs that humans call fingernails.

(Few are the things you regret more than failing him, than the look on his face when you snarled for him to leave for the last time, and for the last time he did.)

He shouts some more before settling on a disney princess movie. She has long hair, with a cute little face and big eyes. She reminds you of Karkat.

This Karkat is so soft. Still angry and loud and full of a desperate need to prove himself, to prove he isn’t just the weird mutation that turns him pale as snow with rat red eyes. To prove that he’s not only as good as their classmates, as everyone else, but _better_.

(You’re so pale for him it hurts, and you wish he remembered, so he could understand exactly how much you love him.)

(You’re so happy he doesn’t remember, because you couldn’t stand him knowing what you’ve done.)

He settles down beside you on the couch, and you tug on him until he’s almost in your lap. Your eyes drift closed as you rest your head on top of his, soothed by the constant flow of words being spat from his mouth.

You hold him and don’t tell him that he’s a miracle, that you can do this is a mOtHeRfUcKiNg MiRaClE, that you love him more than anything you’ve ever given a fuck about.

(You hold him like you’re going to lose him, like you know you will someday, when he remembers.) 

**Author's Note:**

> NOW WITH [FANART](http://lunyhime95.tumblr.com/tagged/syrup-pies) from the wonderful lunyhime95
> 
> on tumblr at [this gorgeous blog ;)](ang3lba3.tumblr.com)


End file.
